of These Isles

Per Mare, Per Terram 28 October 1664 marked the establishment of one of the flowers of the British Armed Forces. At the order of King Charles II, 1,200 soldiers were raised to form the Duke of York and Albany’s Maritime Regiment of Foot, also known as the Admiral’s Regiment. So began the distinguished lineage of the Royal Marines. The regiment was formed during preparations for the Second Anglo-Dutch War, when the Crown required disciplined soldiers capable of serving alongside the Royal Navy. By integrating trained infantry into the fleet, our offensive reach extended beyond the guns of our ships. These amphibious troops could repel enemy boarders, deliver small-arms fire in close engagements, secure vessels and carry the assault ashore. First officially recorded as ‘Marines’ in 1672, the regiment’s identity and reputation evolved over time. Although its early formations were periodically raised and disbanded in response to the demands of war, a permanent Marine Corps was established in 1755, with divisions located at Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth. In recognition of its venerable service, the Corps was granted the title Royal Marines by King George III in 1802. Its responsibilities subsequently expanded to encompass artillery, shipboard gunnery and expeditionary warfare. The accomplished execution of these varied roles has earned the Marines admiration amongst allies and begrudging respect amongst adversaries. Richard Simkin’s watercolour offers a fascinating visual history of the Corps, bringing successive generations of uniforms into a single composition. From the distinctive dress of seventeenth-century Marines to the more familiar Victorian uniforms, one can but imagine the spectacle of scarlet descending upon an enemy in battle. Though undoubtedly a sight to behold, I am pleased that our men are clothed less conspicuously today. Across the centuries, the attire, organisation and operational functions of the Corps have evolved, but its tradition of service and sacrifice endures. As with the entirety of our Armed Forces, the Royal Marines deserve the utmost gratitude from state and civilian alike. By Sea, By Land. Insuperable.

Mary Moser was one of the foremost flower painters of eighteenth-century Britain. Trained by her artist father, Mary demonstrated exceptional talent from an early age, earning awards for her flower drawings and paintings. Moser’s aptitude is apparent in this celebrated composition, Flowers, Still Life (Jardiniere of Flowers). Drawing upon the rich colours and carefully composed arrangements of seventeenth-century Dutch and Flemish flower paintings, Mary brought technical precision and a sophisticated understanding of colour, form and composition to the piece. The delicate feathering of softly layered, pale petals is balanced by the more clearly defined blooms in rich shades of blue. Though our eyes may initially be drawn to the lightest elements of the painting, it is when we turn towards the darker tones and deeper recesses of the arrangement that we begin to appreciate the subtlety with which Moser gives the flowers their depth, texture and vitality. In 1768, Moser became one of only two women among the founding members of the Royal Academy of Arts, alongside Angelica Kauffmann. Her distinguished career continued, with Queen Charlotte commissioning Moser to transform a room at Frogmore House into an imagined garden. With walls adorned with floral garlands and an illusionistic ceiling opening onto the sky, Moser brought a paradisal garden indoors. Moser’s legacy rests not only in her achievements as a pioneering woman of the Royal Academy, but in her ability to transform the fleeting beauty of flowers into an enduring masterpiece. #MaryMoser #British #Artist

Ælfred mec heht gewyrcan So reads the inscription around the extraordinary Alfred Jewel, crafted from gold, enamel, and rock crystal more than 1,100 years ago. The Jewel is thought to be an æstel, an ornate handle for a pointer used to follow the words on a manuscript page. In the preface to his translation of Saint Gregory the Great’s Pastoral Care, Alfred describes sending books accompanied by æstels to bishops throughout his kingdom; the Alfred Jewel may be a fine example of such early medieval reading aids. Described by his Welsh biographer, Asser, as a lover of wisdom, Alfred regarded the pursuit of knowledge as something greater than a personal aspiration. He sought to revive learning in a kingdom where devastating warfare had disrupted the transmission of books and the education of its people. Alfred championed the use of English in writing, making important works more accessible to those without knowledge of Latin. Alfred sought to preserve not only his kingdom from Viking incursions, but also the intellectual and cultural heritage that so distinguished the Anglo-Saxon realm. He understood that a kingdom required more than military might to endure: it needed erudition, aspirations, laws and institutions through which its identity could be sustained. This principle was as fundamental to the survival of Alfred’s kingdom as it remains to the preservation of our nation today. Perhaps, therefore, we might look beyond the Jewel’s inscription, ‘Alfred ordered me to be made’, and consider how Alfred helped to shape something greater than himself. The defence and flourishing of Alfred’s kingdom laid the foundations for the eventual unification of the land we so cherish as England. #KingAlfred #AlfredtheGreat #England

‘Iesu, trugarha wrthyf’. Asking for the mercy of Jesus was the final act of Saint Richard Gwyn before he was martyred in 1584 for refusing to renounce his Catholic faith. Today, on 25 October, we remember St Richard alongside the other five Welsh Martyrs who bore witness to their Catholic faith in Wales during times of persecution: St John Jones, St John Roberts, St Philip Evans, St John Lloyd and St David Lewis. Wrexham holds particular significance in the story of the Welsh schoolmaster, St Richard Gwyn, for it was here that he was executed. Alongside stained-glass memorials, Wrexham Cathedral contains this depiction of the saint, his head encircled by a halo and his hand holding a scroll bearing words of forgiveness and devotion. This poignant detail reminds us of the central place of mercy within the Christian faith and calls to mind those final words of Saint Richard Gwyn: ‘Iesu, trugarha wrthyf’. 🕊️ #Welsh #Martyrs #Catholic

On this day, 23 years ago, Concorde’s final scheduled commercial flight departed New York’s JFK, bound for London Heathrow. She touched down at 16:05, bringing 27 years of extraordinary commercial service to a close. Flying aboard Concorde is one of those experiences that I wish I had been fortunate enough to enjoy in my lifetime. To my mind, there has never been another aircraft quite like her. The sheer beauty of Concorde’s design is incomparable: the elegant delta wings, the distinctively pointed, drooping nose, and the slender, sculpted fuselage. Swan-like in flight, she was powered by four mighty engines that carried her at around 1,350 mph, twice the speed of sound, at altitudes approaching 60,000 feet. Concorde was a true work of art, epitomising the masterful union of aerodynamics and aesthetics. The journey from London to New York took around three and a half hours: a transatlantic feat that seemed to defy time itself. Passengers could leave London in the morning and arrive in New York in time for a morning meeting, sometimes even before the clocks in New York had reached the time at which they had departed from London. Beyond the extraordinary speed, passengers enjoyed an exceptional level of service, with fine dining served on elegant china by immaculately presented cabin crew. Such luxuries may still be found in modern aviation, but Concorde was the pioneer that united supersonic travel with an unparalleled sense of occasion, of theatre. Robert Browning wrote that ‘a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’. Concorde embodied the very essence of that sentiment. She was proof that the boundaries of what seemed possible could be pushed further, and that engineering could aspire to beauty as well as performance. The retirement of this triumph of British and French engineering remains a profound loss. Air travel may be more economical and accessible today, but commercial aviation has yet to recapture that singular combination of speed, elegance and ambition. Perhaps that is why, over two decades later, Concorde still soars head and shoulders above the rest. #Concorde #BritishAirways #Aviation

Saint Donatus of Fiesole belongs to the early medieval world of Irish scholars and clerics who carried their faith across Christendom. Born in Ireland, Donatus is said to have set out on pilgrimage to Rome before arriving in Fiesole, near Florence, where he was elected bishop. Esteemed for his holiness, erudition and pastoral care, he connected Ireland’s early Christian tradition with the holy heart of Italy. Though Tuscany is renowned for its beauty, so too is Ireland. Donatus’ enduring attachment to his homeland finds expression in a poem celebrating Ireland’s natural abundance and its virtuous people: Far westward lies an isle of ancient fame, By nature bless’d; and Scotia is her name, Enrol’d in books: exhaustless is her store, Of veiny silver, and golden ore. Her fruitful soil for ever teems with wealth, With gems her waters, and her air with health; Her verdant fields with milk and honey flow; Her woolly fleeces vie with virgin snow. Her waving furrows float with bearded corn; And arms and arts her envied sons adorn! No savage bear, with lawless fury roves, Nor fiercer lion, through her peaceful groves. No poison there infects, no scaly snake Creeps through the grass, nor frog annoys the lake; An island worthy of its pious race, In war triumphant, and unmatched in peace! The accompanying painting, Madonna with Saints John the Baptist and Donatus of Fiesole (c. 1475–83), was designed by Andrea del Verrocchio and executed largely by Lorenzo di Credi for Pistoia Cathedral. The Irish bishop is brought into the sacred company of Our Lady, the Christ Child and St John the Baptist, thereby affirming his place within the devotional life of Tuscany. Together, the painting and poem reveal a beautiful correspondence: the Renaissance setting locates Donatus in the hallowed landscape of Italy; his evocative verses preserve the memory of the Emerald Isle. That Ireland may count the saint among her own reminds us of the island’s remarkable contribution to the Christian and intellectual history of Europe. In his faith, his learning, and his enduring love for his homeland, Donatus epitomises the spirit of Ireland, the Land of Saints and Scholars.

The Battle of Trafalgar, 21 October 1805: Beginning of the Action Nicholas Pocock created this oil painting just three years after the most famous naval battle in British history. Though the painting’s elevated viewpoint enables us to follow the battle as a whole, light draws our attention to the decisive moment when Nelson’s and Collingwood’s divisions broke through the Franco-Spanish line. Cast in sunlight, Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory, breaks through the allied formation, while Collingwood’s division attacks further down the line. To the British mind, ever admiring of our superlative naval commander, the illumination invites a symbolic reading, reinforcing Nelson’s prominence and the magnitude of his triumph at Trafalgar. Pocock brought unusual authority to his subject. At the age of seventeen, he went to sea and subsequently commanded merchant ships before establishing himself as a professional artist. Thus, Pocock’s maritime experience influenced his compositions, whilst consultation of annotated drawings and plans helped him to achieve precision. From this detached perspective, we can almost admire the beauty of the scene: the elegance of the ships, their crisp sails set against the cool aquamarine sea. Yet this apparent tranquillity belies the chaos and carnage unfolding aboard the vessels. The Battle of Trafalgar helped to secure our Royal Navy’s supremacy for decades to come. Amongst the thousands of men killed or wounded on both sides was Admiral Nelson, who was mortally wounded and died aboard HMS Victory that afternoon. Pocock preserves Trafalgar not only as a defining moment of British naval might, but as a victory whose enduring glory is inseparable from the sacrifice it demanded.

My first introduction to Sir Richard Francis Burton was through this portrait. Having been unfamiliar with the man and his achievements, at first, I didn’t appreciate how effectively Frederic Leighton had captured Burton. From the portrait alone, I surmised that this was a man with many tales to tell, his disposition shaped and his face weathered by an adventurous life. As a soldier, explorer, linguist, translator and writer, Burton proved to be precisely such a man. In 1853, Burton undertook one of the most audacious ventures of his career: a pilgrimage to Mecca disguised as a Muslim pilgrim. Burton remains one of the few European non-Muslims to have entered the holy city, and meticulous preparation enabled him to perform the rites of the Hajj convincingly. As one would expect, his vivid account of the exploit secured his place among the celebrated explorers of the Victorian age. Burton’s subsequent expedition to East Africa brought him to Lake Tanganyika in 1858, thereby expanding European geographical knowledge of the region. The journey also formed part of the wider Victorian quest to establish the source of the Nile. Reputed to have mastered over 25 languages, Burton immersed himself in the customs, beliefs and literatures of the societies he encountered. His linguistic aptitude also enabled him to produce acclaimed translations of The Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra, works which inevitably challenged the sensibilities of Victorian Britain. I suspect that Leighton’s portrait is so compelling because it serves as an introduction to a man of intrigue. Only having learned something of Burton’s extraordinary life can we appreciate just how much the portrait seems to convey: the countenance of a man shaped by adventure, intellectual curiosity, and encounters with worlds far removed from his own.

On the anniversary of a monarch’s death, it is natural to reflect upon the legacy left behind. ‘Bad King John’ is perhaps not the most flattering epithet to have acquired but there are only so many ways to dress-up military failures, territorial losses, conflict with the Church and baronial confrontation. This fourteenth-century miniature was produced more a century after King John’s death in October 1216, and appears in an English manuscript of laws and statutes. Hunting was a traditional expression of rank and royal privilege, and thus monarchs were frequently depicted in this setting. Yet, within a manuscript concerned with English law, one wonders why the king so closely associated with the Magna Carta is instead portrayed as an aristocratic hunter, mounted atop a noble steed, surrounded by hounds and in pursuit of a stag. Of course, not every royal image was intended to be a commentary on a monarch’s reign, and hunting scenes were common in medieval manuscripts from the thirteenth century onwards. Nevertheless, the contrast between King John’s historical reputation and this particular depiction invites us to reflect upon the power of imagery. If this illustration were the only surviving evidence we had for King John, what might we think of him? #KingJohn #English #Manuscript